


Life among the dead

by Del (goddessdel)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/M, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 03:17:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3274682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddessdel/pseuds/Del
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I know you. You're the woman who had Sherlock Holmes!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life among the dead

**Author's Note:**

> Written: 11/24/14-1/31/15
> 
> Takes place during "His Last Vow", right after Sherlock is initially shot.
> 
> Title from "Bring me to Life" by Evanescence.
> 
> Thanks to Beverly and Tali for looking it over. All mistakes are mine anyway.

She rose from her seat the second she heard Janine start down the hall with the distinctive click of mid-range heels and pride.

 

They crossed paths far enough away from prying eyes for Irene to feign shock at seeing her. "I know you. You're the woman who had Sherlock Holmes! Oh - not to be indelicate," she pitched her voice just loud enough to be surprise but not loud enough to draw anyone else's attention. Janine paused, startled before she remembered to seem pleased at the attention, and Irene leant close enough to stage-whisper, "How was he?"

 

Janine's smirk was just wicked enough that Irene could see why he'd picked her. She was a flatteringly pretty brunette who clearly had a mind behind her vacuous exterior. Not enough finesse though - Janine was a woman so used to getting what she wanted that she'd never needed to subtle. Her disappointment at having not gotten her way was obvious in the softness behind her eyes. "Insatiable and an utter bastard," Janine threw back boldly, pleased with herself for the lie and only a bit wistful.

 

Irene's grin was all teeth, and she knew there was no such weakness lurking in her eyes. She favored Janine with a conspiratorial laugh, leaning even closer and considering whether she ought to have her instead. "Oh, you have no idea."

 

Jerking back, laughter faded from Janine's expression as she regarded Irene shrewdly. Not that she could tell much. Irene was well hidden behind the blonde faux-bob that swept over her left eye and the large-brimmed hat that obscured the rest of her features. Janine could be as suspicious as she liked and she would never guess. "Who are you?"

 

"Can you keep a secret?" Irene bit her lip as though nervous, watching as curiosity got the better of Janine. Irene leant close enough to kiss her, swerving at the last moment to press her lips just to Janine's ear. The girl's pulse raced in her neck, breath shallow. Good - the lust would cloud her memories of Irene. "I'll be indelicate: I'm The Woman who _had_ him." Her soft-steel dominatrix voice, quiet but inconvertible.

 

Irene withdrew and continued down the hall, rounding a corner while Janine was still gaping open-mouthed at her. She could hear an orderly directing Janine to the main entrance. It was cruel, she knew, to set the poor girl's mind spinning. Especially as the articles had been amusing. Irene was looking forward to teasing Sherlock mercilessly about them for absolutely ages.

 

Irene didn't linger outside the door to Sherlock's room. Too many of Mycroft's cameras, and her heels had already given her away to the man inside even if the window hadn't. She shut the door, listening to the latch click solidly. Sherlock was watching her when she turned, his attention fixed but his eyes still a little bleary from pain and morphine. Irene swept her gaze across the room, a smile teasing her mouth at Janine's newspapers. She snatched up 'Seven Times a Night in Baker Street!' to read, unfolding it as she climbed deftly upon Sherlock's bed to straddle him, careful not to make him bear her weight.

 

Sherlock fought against a groan, his body rigid in agony under hers despite all her effort to be careful. He tensed as though he meant to rise and Irene pressed a quelling hand over his heart, listening to its too rapid beat. "No, no, no. Don't get up on my account," she tsked, playful. "I'll do all the work."

 

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock subsided, his overtaxed muscles relaxing under her touch. "And you didn't even have to drug me."

 

They watched each other over the lip of that ridiculous headline for a long moment. Irene smirked boldly, her eyes skimming across his bare chest and lingering over the monitors and patch of gauze holding him together. "Lovely girl. Should I be jealous?"

 

"Hardly," Sherlock snorted his response, but his breath was a touch winded and she could tell that it cost him not to wince at the motion.

 

Irene shrugged, tossing the newspaper to the floor, "I'll be flattered, then." The resemblance, however poor the imitation, of the girl he'd selected for his ruse had not gone unnoticed. She leant carefully forward to run her hand down his upper body, her palm not quite pressing over the gauze. She could feel the heat of his wound through the packing in a way that made her surprisingly faint and vaguely ill. Sherlock made that pained but hiding it sound again and Irene withdrew, biting her lip. "I leave you alone for five minutes and you nearly get yourself killed, again." Her voice pitched higher at the end against her will, concern bleeding through the teasing.

 

It was Sherlock who broke eye contact first, his gaze skittering toward the single rose in a vase at his bedside. "I got your calling card," he drawled, trying for casual to distract from his obvious pain and her obvious concern.

 

"You were slower to wake than I had anticipated." And that definitely was concern behind the accusation. He had frightened her, lying there in his hospital bed as though he might never wake again. Irene let her eyes close fleetingly against the memory. She ought to be cross with him for making her _feel_ , but sentiment had long since infected both of them, and she was so suffused with it that she couldn’t bring herself to hurt him further just to deny the poison coursing through her veins. Especially not when their time was so limited by Sherlock's litany of visitors - some more innocuous than others.

 

Sherlock's eyes came back to hers, trying to read her again. "Dangerous, to come back again." His voice was rough with misery and worry and sharp with irritation to mask the others.

 

His anger put her on more even footing. Irene shook off the sentiment seeping through her careful façade and settled more intimately over Sherlock, her dress inching higher over her thighs as she balanced her weight on her knees. "What can I say? I can't resist misbehaving."

 

"Clearly," Sherlock managed with a half-smile tugging at his mouth, his eyes fluttering shut and body taut under hers - though not nearly so responsive as he would have been without a cocktail of morphine and coagulants in his system. The next moment, his eyes snapped open to regard her calculatingly. "I need to leave."

 

Irene arched one eyebrow at that. "Do be reasonable, Sherlock. You can't even get _up_." Unkind, perhaps, but true. They never held their tongues around one another, and Irene did not intend to start when Sherlock was busy exercising his capacity to be both the world's only consulting detective and the most exceedingly idiotic, stubborn man she had ever met. Gaze steady on his, Irene moved her hand toward his morphine switch - the one that was currently turned off.

 

Sherlock's fingers closed around her wrist, grip surprisingly firm, and thumb over her pulse. The first contact between them that he had initiated. "You can either lecture me about being reasonable," his tone suggested exactly what he thought about her qualifications on that front, "or you can help." He released her after a moment, motions economical to conserve energy. "It's not safe here."

 

The _for either of us_ didn't need to be said. With a resigned sigh, Irene rose up on her knees, sweeping her gaze clinically across Sherlock. She was something of an expert at pushing limits. While a gunshot wound was a little outside her normal range of play, it was hardly the first she had seen. Sherlock was in good physical health overall, limited only by his own tendency to forget key details such as nourishment, but the strain evident in his every motion pointed to a very effective, efficient wound. He was not meant to be out of bed anytime soon. "I'm not carrying you," Irene warned, "And if you bleed on my Versace dress, I'll leave you for dead."

 

It was a relief to see her own dark humor reflected in Sherlock's eyes. "I would expect nothing less. Now, would you get off?"

 

Irene reached over to turn off the electronics, noting his vitals as she did so. "Perhaps later, if you're up for it," she countered to distract them both, watching his brows knit as he tried to refocus on the double entendre. It distracted him enough that she was able to remove his monitors and IVs without any fuss - certainly better than what he would have done to himself. She did have considerable experience with needles. Of course, so did Sherlock. "It will have to be the window." Irene pressed gauze over the new marks on his arms for a moment to stem the bleeding and then levered herself carefully off of the bed.

 

Sherlock nodded in what was either thanks or agreement, and Irene smoothed her dress back over her thighs, crossing her arms expectantly. Sherlock shoved himself into a sitting position with seeming ease that was belied by a sharp inhale at the movement. He carefully shed his sheets and slid his feet over the side of the bed, disentangling himself from more wires and tubes as he went.

 

Irene was less concerned at Sherlock's nudity than she was at the quantity of bandaging and tubing wrapped around and into him. It was, frankly, alarming. Her throat felt tight in a way that reminded her uncomfortably of when she'd watched him jump off Bart's on the telly. A tightness that had persisted until he'd turned up on her doorstep, a little worse for wear but very much alive.

 

Something of her discomfit must have been obvious in her expression. Sherlock's eyebrows rose and then knitted together as though he were trying to remember something. "Would you have cried?"

 

"Over what?" Irene blinked, stray dust caught in her eye, and used the shock of his question to start forward and catch him before he could try to stand.

 

Hands gripping the bedrail as he lowered his feet to the floor, Sherlock bit out through clenched teeth, "If I had died?"

 

Irene ducked her shoulder under his arm on his uninjured side, wrapping her arm securely but carefully about his waist, above the bandaging. It provided the perfect reason not to look at him as they rose shakily to his feet. "Of course not. Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, anger at the very idea of him dying keeping her voice sharp. Sherlock Holmes, killed by something as mundane as a bullet wound? It was too preposterous to merit consideration.

 

Sherlock made a deliberating noise, still breathing hard through his nose and leaning heavily into her as he let go of the rail. After a moment, he managed to bear his own weight with considerable difficulty and more than considerable stubbornness.

 

Well, at least he could stand. Best not to test for how long before they had to. "Sit," Irene commanded, ducking out from under his arm and glaring at him until Sherlock acquiesced with his own sullen look. "Did Doctor Watson leave you clothing, or shall I be escorting a man, naked and bandaged, through London at midday?"

 

"You say that as if it's not the first time," Sherlock mused in hint of his normal voice, and Irene offered him a secretive wink in reply. "In the drawer."

 

Sherlock looked pallid but determined as Irene turned to gather his clothing, her hand lingering over the familiar Belstaff coat. She brought the rest of his clothing to his bedside and then stood back, considering. "Usually, I make men strip for me. Must you always be contrary, Mr. Holmes?"

 

Reaching painstakingly for his trousers, Sherlock offered her a ghost of his usual, overly cocky smirk. "I do my best." He was careful not to say her name, though Irene had already swept the room for Mycroft's bugs on her last visit.

 

Irene let him struggle with his trousers, watching his range of motion and considering various details of their exit route. It was obvious he would not manage the rest of his clothing on his own, not if they wanted to be out of the hospital any time soon. She reached for his shirt and undid the buttons, holding it out for his arm. Sherlock arched one incredulous eyebrow, and Irene snapped, impatient and anxious, "Make an exception."

 

"You're always the exception." It was so soft that Irene was certain Sherlock had not meant to say it aloud. It was both comforting and a considerable reminder that Sherlock was far from at peak condition.

 

Irene bit her lip as she helped him with his shirt, blazer and, once they propped him up on the bedrail, his coat. At least it would help keep him warm if his internal organs decided to shut down or he started bleeding out. She had already discretely stored some supplies in her handbag, including gauze, tape, adrenaline, and syringes. There were no easily accessible bottles of morphine, and the intravenous morphine bag would not survive being tucked next to her heels. "You're going to need the morphine to stay mobile."

 

Sherlock batted her away, forcing himself fully upright with a grimace and turning toward the window. "No. I need to think."

 

Irene carefully disentangled the morphine bag before resuming her previous supportive position under Sherlock's good arm and steering them toward the window. His arm was heavy over her shoulder, but nothing she couldn't manage. "You need to be able to stand up. You'll rip your stitches."

 

"Internal bleeding is more likely," Sherlock countered calmly, through his jaw was clenched.

 

The window opened easily enough - doubtless the hospital staff were not expecting a gunshot patient in a private room to decide to take an alternative exit route. It was a relatively easy climb down from the ledge to the ground under normal circumstances. "Keep track of your pulse, then. The morphine can go in your coat pocket for now. We'll string it up at the hotel." She did not wait for his acquiescence before tucking the bag into his pocket and making her way onto the ledge.

 

They managed to maneuver Sherlock through the window. Irene checked the pins in her hat, tucked her heels into her handbag and dropped off the ledge. There was an ivy trellis that she could just reach, and she planted her bare feet securely amongst the rungs before motioning Sherlock to follow her.

 

Sherlock watched her with some amusement, though it was certainly not going to be a very funny endeavor for either of them. "Baker Street," he corrected.

 

"If the hospital isn't safe, I very much doubt Baker Street will be." Although it was perhaps a bit of a moot point, given that Sherlock seemed determined to finish the job the gunshot wound had started.

 

"I need to get something." His added height made it somewhat less of a stretch for him, which was a relief because she very much doubted he could hold his weight with just his hands at the moment. Together, they managed to make it to the flowerbed. Sherlock leant against the wall while Irene brushed off her feet and donned her shoes.

 

Once they were as presentable as they were going to get, Irene tucked herself back under his arm, arranging herself so that they looked like overly affectionate lovers. She turned up Sherlock's collar and spared a fond thought for his deerstalker. "We'll have to be quick."

 

Sherlock nodded, already deep in thought. "You're familiar with the route to avoid the cameras." It was not a question. "She'll be looking for me."

 

Irene glanced up at that. _She_. "My, you're becoming quite popular with the ladies." But Sherlock had lapsed into a rather ominous silence. "Or, is this the one who shot you?" Not that that was much better. If anyone was going to shoot Sherlock Holmes, Irene Adler rather felt she ought to have preference.

 

"Don't tell me you're jealous of _that_." He sounded slightly incredulous, though he had to pause for a wet-sounding cough. "She shot me."

 

It was better to keep him talking. That odd churning feeling in Irene's gut settled slightly to hear Sherlock sound more himself, though it clearly took its toll on him. When he was silent she had far too much time to analyze his shallow breaths and too rapid pulse, or the exact quality of fluid in his lungs. "I'm sure plenty of people want to shoot you. I'd prefer you didn't let them."

 

Sherlock sped up their pace in annoyance, pulling away from her as much as he could, even though she could tell that every step was agony for him. "I didn't _let_ her shoot me."

 

Well, the sooner they reached Baker Street, the sooner she could string up his morphine and assess the damage this little jaunt had cost him. Irene would tie him up if necessary. Better to goad him a little than admit anything. "Oh, so it was a mistake?"

 

"I was surprised."

 

"Clearly."

 

They were glaring at each other in the middle of the street. Hardly as discrete as they needed to be, even on one of the more anonymously crowded London routes. Irene took a quick breath to calm her breathing and regain her composure, tightening her grip and tugging him along.

 

Sherlock stopped short a second later, as they were passing a boutique perfumery. "I'll just be a moment."

 

Irene tightened her grip, fixing him under her steeliest glare. "Don't be ridiculous."

 

"It's important," Sherlock persisted, clearly irritated at her refusal. When Irene remained unmoved, Sherlock sighed, exasperated. "It's for John!"

 

"No need to get so agitated," Irene chastised, ignoring his scowl as she considered. There was a camera inside the shop, but her hat should take care of that. "You'll make a scene. Better to send an expert. What am I looking for?"

 

After a moment, Sherlock relaxed with a fractional nod. "Clair de la lune."

 

"Doctor Watson has expensive taste in perfume." Irene teased as she maneuvered Sherlock against the wall, away from the cameras and not somewhere where he would appear to be lurking. "Now just wait here, darling, whilst I do the shopping."

 

She ducked into the shop before Sherlock could protest, though she could feel his glare on her back. The store was busy and the perfume was easy enough to slip away with unnoticed. Irene was back outside in only a few minutes, but Sherlock was already gone.

 

Irene bit back a curse. If she found him collapsed in some alleyway, she was absolutely going to leave him there to rot.

  
The way to Baker Street was easy enough; even dodging the CCTVs was no trouble between her hat and the crowd. And, despite her fears, Irene made it to 221B without finding Sherlock Holmes dead in a ditch along the way.

 

She slipped in through the back window, as was her custom, discarded her hat in Sherlock's bed, and made her way to the front room, where she found Sherlock Holmes laboriously dragging a chair across the room.

 

Admittedly, she was more than a bit impressed that he'd made it there so quickly. Unfortunately, she was also more than a bit exasperated. Irene arched one eyebrow and considered shooting him herself, not for the first time. "What are you doing?"

 

Sherlock grinned at her, hair damp with sweat. "John's chair." He shuddered through another wet cough before Irene managed to cross the room, drag him to his chair none too gently, and shove him into it.

 

"For goodness' sake," Irene fixed him with a look that made it plainly clear he had better not get up again before crossing to the wardrobe to find a hanger. She hung the morphine on the hanger, hooked it to the lamp beside his chair, retrieved a sterile needle from her handbag, and held it out. "Be a good boy and take your medicine." Her smile was all teeth.

 

Now that he was sitting, Sherlock did not entirely look as though he were capable of standing again if he wanted to. He ignored her outstretched hand, leaning his head back against the chair and closing his eyes. His features were rigid and pallid from pain and exertion.

 

"Am I going to have to drug you again after all?" She kept her voice casual as she pushed up the sleeve of his coat and started unbuttoning his cuff.

 

Sherlock shook her off with the most economical motions possible. "Enough, Woman. I need to think."

 

He meant to irritate her into leaving him alone with his sharp dismissal, but her title always sounded hallowed on his lips and made a liar of him. "You've been thinking, and not about redecorating. You need to sit there and take your morphine before you work yourself into a heart attack. Tell me what the plan is and let an expert sort out the details." Her tone was saccharine sweet in a vaguely patronizing and very calculating way.

 

"It's John's welcome home." Sherlock blinked open his eyes blearily, but he was watching her carefully.

 

Irene considered this information. "Is his marriage treating him poorly?" It was somewhat of a flippant response, designed to buy her time to piece together what Sherlock would certainly consider obvious clues.

 

Sherlock offered her a twisted smile that was more of a grimace. "It's been treating me poorly."

 

Ah. Well then, wasn't that interesting. "Is that who shot you - the lovely Mrs. Watson? And why would she do that?"

 

"It's a long story."

 

"I like stories."

 

They stared at each other for a long moment, a silent battle of wills. Finally, Sherlock took the needle, removing it from its packaging and sliding it home in a vein with the marked skill and careless perfection that came from far too much practice. "Mary Watson is a liar."

 

The second the morphine began to hit his system, Sherlock relaxed into the chair with a measured sigh. Irene didn't bother to hide her knowing grin. "Everyone lies, Mr. Holmes."

 

Them most of all.

 

He waved that away as obvious. "She wants me to take her case."

 

"So she shot you?"

 

"She failed to kill me at point blank range. Rather poor form for someone with the training of a former assassin, don't you think? She wanted me out of the way, not dead. Did you get the perfume?"

 

Grudgingly, Irene found herself appreciating the doctor's wife. Irene had very little in common with the good doctor, but they clearly shared the same taste. She set the perfume on the end table, running her finger along the bottle and trying to get a sense of the woman who wore it. "This hardly seems like staying out of the way."

 

Sherlock offered her a wry smile. "Well, she did shoot me."

 

Irene shook her head, amusement bubbling up through the pit that seemed permanently settled in her stomach since Sherlock had been rushed to hospital. "A shame. There are so many more innovative ways to distract you from a case." She feigned innocence under Sherlock's scowl. "Now, let's finish setting up the doctor's surprise, and I'll take you to bed."

 

Sherlock let the innuendos pass, his nod of agreement uncharacteristically slow, the morphine taking hold of him at last. "John's chair. In its old place. Leave the perfume."

 

Once the chair and perfume was set to Sherlock's liking, Irene helped him to his feet, disconnecting him from the morphine before he was completely comatose. Blood loss had considerably undone his normally high tolerance for opiates.

 

They stumbled toward his bedroom, where she kept him standing, leaning heavily into her, long enough to shrug off his coat and undo his shirt and blazer. She painstakingly replaced his bloodied bandages, and wrapped him in several loops of gauze to hold the packing and stitching together. He would have less mobility, but at least he might not bleed out before the end of the night.

 

Irene bit her lip, helping him onto the bed, propped up with pillows. "Is there any point in me hooking up the morphine again?"

 

"None at all." His words were carefully enunciated, a frown marring his features. Against the effects of the morphine and exhaustion or the idea, Irene couldn't ascertain.

 

With a roll of her eyes, Irene sat next to him on the bed, careful not to jostle him. "I could tie you up and make you."

 

Sherlock snorted, daring her to try even as he struggled to hide the resulting wince. "Say that to a lot of people trapped between you and a bed?"

 

Irene smirked, leaning closer. "It's not always a bed."

 

His eyes were closed again, though he wasn't quite asleep. It reminded her uncomfortably of the long night in hospital before he woke. She'd sneaked in after visiting hours were over, between the nightshift nurses' rounds. She'd felt curiously helpless, watching him lying there, reading the doctor's report and unsure if he was going to wake up. Irene Adler was not prepared to imagine a world without Sherlock Holmes.

 

"I did."

 

"What?" Sherlock did not open his eyes, his voice roughened by sleep already.

 

Perhaps that was the only thing that gave her the courage to continue, brazen where she would rather have lied. "You asked if I'd cry if I thought you were dead. I did." Not in his hospital room, but before. The long weeks after his purported suicide where the silence preyed upon her better judgment until her conviction had faded into a profound, indescribable sense of loss.

 

The room was silent after her confession, but the quality of the silence was more considered and less heavy than before.

 

There now - they'd both acquiesced to sentiment under the duress of Sherlock's injuries. That wasn't weakness but recompense, surely.

 

Sherlock's hand, warm on her arm even through her coat, made Irene look up. He was watching her intently. "I'll try not to make a habit of it."

 

That vaguely hysterical macabre humor bubbled up inside her again. Irene leant forward and pressed her lips feather-light over Sherlock's brow, making note of his elevated temperature as she did. His friends would be looking for him soon, and it was probably beyond misbehaving if Doctor Watson found her in Sherlock's bed. "See that you don't." She drew back, her fingertips skating across his pulse as she slid her arm out from under his hand.

 

"John will be back soon," Sherlock mumbled, words indistinct under the haze of sleep overtaking him.

 

Time to go. He needed his rest, and she needed to be far away from Baker Street when the good doctor came to check on his patient. She wasn't cut out to play nursemaid anyway.

 

Still, Irene took her time reclaiming her hat and checking that the extra medical supplies were arrayed neatly within Sherlock's reach. She lingered at the door, watching the subtle rise and fall of his chest with his unsteady breaths until a commotion downstairs signaled Doctor Watson's return.

 

"I'll see you once you're back in hospital," she promised reproachfully, refusing to acknowledge any alternative.

 

There was no reason to be concerned. At this rate, she'd see him tonight. It was a promise she intended to hold him to.


End file.
